


split

by heixicanadragon



Category: Rurouni Kenshin
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, major manpain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:31:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heixicanadragon/pseuds/heixicanadragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruroken, requested for the prompt "Mourn Me:"<br/>"a drabble about one character mourning another character’s death."</p>
<p>Jinchuu and the time/space continuum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	split

The sunlight flickered red over the bare head hanging motionless in the corner, the owner of that bare head heedless to the time of day and weather conditions.

_Under an old tree’s spreading branches, the brim of the traveler’s hat gleams in the night, a tail of hair, moonlit pale, slipping from underneath the straw weave._

If the thoughts of a destroyed man could be recorded against the slim possibility that they hold meaning…

If the ruminations of a person slowly descending into death’s cold grasp could be counted or measured…

_The traveler stirs, slowly unties the hat from around their head, and gently places it on the ground. Lifts their face. The shadows from twigging branches fall just so, just so._

A man with no future lives split in two. 

Without future, the present is torture—living death. Time is a knife pointed at one’s heart, a million shards that tear one apart with every second that slips away.

_The fresh wounds on the traveler’s face no longer drip blood. The wounds perhaps might heal faster if they were left to themselves, without dirt-encrusted fingers’ caress._

Without future, the present is the furthest edge of one’s consciousness, shoving one forward towards the empty gulf ahead. Behind one is also nothing. Memories are no substitute for the real.

Without future, the past is all there is. It is nothing and yet it is everything. One is empty and yet so heavy one cannot move.

_The traveler shifts forward, resting a chin upon a knee. A hand gripping grass, another hand gripping the sheathed sword at their side._

If there was anything left to mourn, one could mourn.

But one cannot.

**_There is nothing left. Empty shells may have vows to keep, but vows cannot sustain or animate what is dead._ **


End file.
